


then happy I, that love and am beloved

by sea_changed (foxlives)



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Foursome, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Post-Series, Trans Character, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxlives/pseuds/sea_changed
Summary: In a moment Jon forgot about Silas, forgot about Frey; forgot about anyone but Will, taking his own pleasure as he took everything in his life, bold and certain.
Relationships: Dominic Frey/Silas Mason, Dominic Frey/Silas Mason/Will Quex/Jonathan Shakespeare, Will Quex/Jonathan Shakespeare
Comments: 20
Kudos: 66
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	then happy I, that love and am beloved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xpityx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/gifts).



> A Yuletide Treat for xpityx, who requested foursomes, Jon and Will being sweet, and Will getting nice things; hopefully this delivers on all counts.
> 
> This takes place post-series (including A Private Miscellany) by a year or two.
> 
> No strong warnings for this one, but there is reference to some body dysphoria, as well as consent play/everything you'd expect from a sex scene involving Dominic Frey.

The house was quiet, always an odd state for it to be in: the last gentleman had turned tail for his own bed—or one more promising—and the maids and footmen had all finished their tasks. 

Nearly every gentleman had gone, at least. Jon studied this month’s ledger, half his mind on the figures, the other half on the scene sure to be unfolding just a few rooms away. Silas had come up with the idea a few months back, having them fuck Frey in the private rooms of the very place Jon and Will served him the rest of the time, and had gotten Frey to agree—or not agree, or however it was they worked things out between them. Jon liked it because it meant not having to trek over to Millay’s, and it was closer to home; something for everyone, he thought. 

Will poked his head around the door, finished at last getting the kitchen set to rights. “Done with the figures?” he asked.

“Done enough,” Jon said. He got up to follow Will; before he did, though, they both shed their coats, and Jon discarded his waistcoat, too. No doubt Frey would feel that extra twinge of humiliation, having them dressed in their full livery as they ordered him about, but Jon didn’t much like the idea, himself. He wasn’t a servant, at these meetings, and he wouldn’t wear the trappings of one just to please.

They went through to the front section of the house, from creaking boards to plush carpets, and down the hall to the private parlor. The door to the bedroom was shut; Jon knocked, short and sure.

“Come in,” Silas said from behind the door,

Jon pushed into the room, Will at his heels. The sight that greeted them was in some ways unremarkable, as far as these things went: Frey wasn’t chained or bound, gagged or blindfolded, merely laid out naked on the bed, cock hard and curved against his stomach. Silas, still in shirt and breeches, sat back on his heels beside him. Silas watched them come in, nodded in greeting; Frey’s face was turned from them, as far as he could, a dull flush tracing down his throat and into the dark tangle of hair on his chest. He had his arms by his sides, fingers clutching at the sheets with such force that the skin stretched white over his knuckles. There was something in the way he held himself, stiff and straining, that made Jon think Silas had ordered him not to move.

“Eh,” Silas said, taking Frey’s face in his hand, roughly. “Say hallo.”

“Good evening,” Frey said after a moment, his voice quiet and strained.

“Not good enough,” Silas growled. “Look ‘em in the eye. You’ll be serving ‘em tonight, doing whatever they like, you hear? Least you can do to start out is give a proper greeting.”

With what seemed like a monumental effort, Frey turned his face toward them. His jaw was clenched, and he was breathing harshly through his nose. His gaze made it to somewhere around Jon’s chest, and he said again, “Good evening.”

“Well, you can’t say he isn’t polite,” Jon remarked.

“Put him in livery, and he could have a job here tomorrow,” Will added, a smirk hooking up the side of his mouth. Sure enough, Frey didn’t like that at all: his flinch was a violent, full-bodied thing, a recoil from Will’s words.

Jon laughed. All right: he understood where they were, tonight. This was how they usually worked, letting Silas set the tone for the evening and then jumping in to test the waters. Jon wouldn’t pretend to understand all of Frey’s moods, but this seemed like a more or less straightforward one: humiliation and control, messing with Frey’s head and maybe venting some of their own grievances on the way.

He stepped up to where Frey lay prone, expecting that Will would take up his usual spot along the wall, ready to watch and make remarks. Will didn’t always come along, but it had been a fair few times now; there was something like a routine, a balance they had long ago worked out between them newly reconfigured for the addition of Frey, and all he meant.

Jon laid his hand over the side of Frey’s throat, exposed with the turn of his head, and felt him swallow under his palm. He’d seen bruises there before, knew this was something Silas did to him: Jon wouldn’t dare, even with Silas watching over his shoulder—maybe especially not, with Silas watching over his shoulder—but he could threaten. And truth be told, the way Frey’s mind worked, sometimes the threat seemed just as good as the thing itself.

Sure enough, Frey’s lips parted slightly, his eyes falling shut. Jon was debating the relative merits of whatever plan Silas might have versus the urge to push his cock into Frey’s waiting mouth, fuck his throat, when he felt Will come up beside him.

Jon looked at him, a question; Will glanced back, if not an answer than at least a suggestion. After a moment of consideration Jon stepped away, surrendering his own plans to watch and see what Will might do next.

Will didn’t do anything, for a moment; merely looked down at Frey, eyes traveling over his body with a detached, assessing expression on his face. Frey, whose eyes had opened again after Jon let him go, shuddered. 

“He know his way around a cunny?” Will asked finally. He took a handful of Frey’s hair, jerked his head back. Frey moaned. “I’ll bet not.”

“Nah,” Silas said. “Right Margery, he is. Through and through.”

“Ah well,” Will said. “He’s here to serve, ain’t he? So he’ll serve, like it or not.”

Frey made another sound at that. Will’s voice was certain, but he looked questioningly at Silas as he said it, one brow raised. Frey’s eyes were shut, mouth open, panting a little. Silas gave Will a nod, but with a little tilt to it, an _if you’re game, then. . ._

Will set to work on his waistcoat. Jon hung back, at the foot of the bed, Frey directly in his line of sight. He would never begrudge Will his pleasure, but he wasn’t altogether certain about this, either. Games were games, but if Frey balked, that could mean trouble outside this room, too. 

Then again, if Frey so much as batted an eye, Jon would put his hands to his neck for real this time. Silas or no; whatever the trouble caused. 

Will stripped off waistcoat and shirt, revealing the bandages wound tightly around his chest. Frey’s eyes were open now, and he was watching Will: he didn’t look disconcerted, though, or even particularly with it, a certain drugged look in his eyes that he got when they started shoving him around in earnest. 

Will shoved off his breeches and drawers and stockings, all in one go, and then swung a leg over Frey’s chest, straddling him. Frey looked somewhat startled, and Jon didn’t bother stifling his chuckle. “If we didn’t believe you before, Silas, we do now,” Jon said. “What, Sir Dominic? Never had a whore, just to see what it was like?”

Even from where he stood Jon could see Frey’s throat move as he swallowed. “I’d say he thinks he’s too good for whores, but we all know that ain’t true,” Will said. “Zoë’s boys are terrible gossips, you know that, Frey? And there ain’t many it’s safe for them to gossip to, so when they get a chance—“ He whistled between his teeth. “We’ve heard all sorts of stories about you, rest assured.”

Jon glanced over at Silas, who wasn’t looking particularly pleased about this topic of conversation. There were plenty of things Jon could say to that—if Silas didn’t want to hear about the other men who’d fucked his lover, maybe he should’ve picked someone who hadn’t been fucked by quite so many; something like that—but he found he didn’t have it in him to be an arse to Silas just to get a reaction out of Frey, even for the sake of a game. Silas’s possessiveness over Frey was a strong, unpredictable thing, and Jon—unlike Will—wasn’t much for poking at that particular bear with this particular stick.

He couldn’t deny Will’s methods entirely, though. Frey was flushed and moaning, softly, and then louder as Will sank both hands into his hair and tugged. Frey’s neck arched, baring his throat, and the sound he let out was keening, wanting. Jon palmed himself; idle, at least for now. The was Will’s show, now and up until the point he, or Silas, decided it wasn’t, but that didn’t mean Jon planned on spilling tonight by his own hand alone.

Frey was breathing roughly through his mouth, eyes closed, head pinned back. “Aye, I’ve heard plenty,” Will went on, voice low. “Heard you can do all sorts of things with that mouth of yours, and I aim to find out if it’s true, understand? And I don’t give a shit if you like it, cause what are you here for?”

There were a few ragged moments of silence, Frey’s breathing the only sound. “Man asked you a question,” Silas said finally, his voice hoarse. He smoothed a hand over Frey’s bent-up knee, then dug his nails in. “What do you say?”

Frey wet his lips, and swallowed, the bob of his exposed throat nearly obscene. “Whatever you want,” he said quietly, voice at the edge of breaking, not quite an answer to the question asked. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“ _Whatever you want_ ,” Will repeated back to him, mocking. Frey flushed red. “You’re a good little whore yourself, ain’t you? I can see why Silas here keeps you around.” And in a sure, sharp movement, he crawled to sit over Frey’s face.

Jon wrapped his fingers around the bedpost, bracing himself. For what, he wasn’t entirely sure. They had Frey well controlled, docile under Will’s words and Silas’s hands and Jon’s gaze. He would do nearly anything like this, Jon well knew; certainly he had yet to see Frey ever say no. He would do whatever he was told, and Jon only prayed it was true of this too, that this would not be the moment the conservative gentryman broke through his cowed, submissive veneer.

Will rolled his hips, and Frey made a sound, muffled between Will’s legs. “Lick,” Will instructed him harshly, using the hand he still had in Frey’s hair to direct him.

Silas still had a hand on Frey’s knee, and was watching him just as closely as Jon, but without the suspicion Jon knew was in his own gaze. His look was steady, all-consumed. He had explained to Jon, a few months back and several drinks into the evening, that his job at these meetings was to make sure Frey was all right: that his sole and abiding focus. 

That was true enough, Jon thought. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have minded fucking around with Silas as well, to do something like their old evenings, before Frey, the three of them in bed together in every configuration that suited. But that didn’t seem to be in the cards anymore: now when they came together Silas held himself aloof, never touching anyone but Frey. Jon wasn’t sure if it was Silas’s savage loyalty or his inscrutable ethics or that, his gaze filled up with Frey, he simply wasn’t interested anymore. Jon thought he might ask after it sometime, maybe, though he didn’t expect Silas to give him any kind of straight answer. 

Will moaned, a distraction from Jon’s reverie: Frey seemed to be catching on fast. Will’s stream of filth was growing more distracted, his face growing more intent as he moved in a steady rhythm. Jon went around to the side of the bed so he could see better, see Will’s face drawn up in pleasure: a look as familiar as home, and one he never tired of. 

Will’s body moved, sinuous and sure, riding Frey’s face. His hair, coming loose from the grease that slicked it back during the day, fell in pieces over his forehead: his shoulders, square and strong, arched back. In a moment Jon forgot about Silas, forgot about Frey; forgot about anyone but Will, taking his own pleasure as he took everything in his life, bold and certain. 

Will bit his lip, arched his back. He reached out and took hold of the headboard with the hand not twisted tight in Frey’s hair, steadying himself. He’d stopped talking, as much as Will ever stopped talking in bed; he’d left full sentences behind, swearing in a constant, reflexive stream as his hips moved in a faster rhythm and then no rhythm at all and then he went abruptly silent as he came, hard, body shaking with it. When Will came his whole body seemed to go quiet, his expression given over to pleasure, his body relaxing from the strict hold he otherwise kept on it. It was a private thing, to see Will like this.

“Fuck,” Will said appreciatively, when he finished. He let go of the headboard to shove his hair back from his face, and then crawled back down Frey’s body. Frey’s mouth and chin were wet; he licked his lips, something between curiosity and a reflex, and Jon could picture Will’s smirk without looking.

He was still half-waiting for something to go wrong, for Frey to flinch, so admittedly he didn’t see it coming when instead Will took hold of Frey’s chin, fingers digging into skin, and kissed him. Will’s mouth moved sure and dirty: it wasn’t so much a kiss, in truth, as it was Will fucking Frey’s mouth with his tongue. Frey was making sounds Jon wished he could pay more attention to, protest and surrender in one.

As it was, however, Jon hadn’t so much seen as felt Silas’s reaction to this turn of events, and a glance at his expression made it clear that Silas was as little in favor of it as anyone—very much including Will, as it happened—could’ve guessed. He hadn’t specified that it wasn’t allowed—because God forbid, Jon thought irritably, that Silas Mason ever admit to something that might be construed as a weakness—but Jon had always assumed kissing Frey to be firmly off-limits, and proceeded as such. Will, Jon was sure, had made the same assumptions, but had instead decided to test those limits, as always, to push and prod at something until he understood where he stood with it.

Silas seemed strangely reluctant to stop Will, though it was clear he wanted to; Jon wondered if that had something to do with the small, yearning sounds Frey was still making in the back of his throat, clear evidence that he was enjoying himself. 

Regardless, Jon didn’t see this going anywhere good. He stepped forward, resting his hand on Will’s back: felt Will’s spine shift under his palm, felt a surge of the arousal he’d been largely ignoring. Will broke the kiss with a gasp, looked up at Jon with a pleased, playful look, just a hint of wickedness underneath. 

Jon cocked an eyebrow, though he couldn’t help smirking a little, too. Will raised his eyebrows right back, making a point. 

Jon could only nod meaningfully at Silas, making his point in return. “Fine,” Will said, putting on petulence. “You sure you don’t want to fuck him before we go?” he asked, for Frey’s benefit; probably Silas’s, too, Jon considered, as Frey made a sound and Silas’s hand tightened at his knee.

But Will didn’t truly need an answer; he climbed off of Frey, and gathered his shed clothes from the floor. Then he walked around to Silas, who was giving them both a look, a little wary, a little suspicious.

Will stood in front of him and, almost incongruously, put his finger under Silas’s chin, tilted his face up. Will kissed him short and chaste, everything his kiss with Frey hadn’t been; for all that, though, it was infinitely more tender, and meant infinitely more, no matter how Silas would see it. “Have fun,” Will said, pulling back.

“Will—” Silas said.

“And don’t break him too badly,” Will said, walking backward toward the door. He smirked back at Silas, all his tenderness from a moment ago gone. “If you ain’t gone by morning, you’ll give the maids a fright.”

“Sod off,” Silas said. He glanced at Jon, a verification: Jon nodded, tried to convey to him that everything was fine.

Silas nodded back, after a moment. By the time Jon closed the door behind them, he saw that Silas’s gaze was already back on Frey, the expression on his face one that assured Jon he’d made the right call. 

Will threw his clothes on haphazardly once they were out in the hall. It wasn’t much of a walk back to Gerrard Street, and the night held the heat like a sponge: they didn’t bother fetching their coats as they made their way through the familiar back ways of the house, out into the courtyard behind it.

The night was indeed still thick and warm, and Will rolled his shoulders like a cat, soaking it up. This deep into the night, just before the turn of dawn, St. James was all but deserted, all the gentlemen gone home or holed so deeply in their clubs and hells that there was no sign of them. The stream of servants deployed for their comfort had also dried up, most of them asleep either in their beds or at their posts. It was as though it was just them, in all of London, the zigzag of alleys that would bring them home entirely theirs for the having.

Will leaned against his side, partly mischievous and partly affectionate: if Jon were a smaller man it would’ve knocked him off his course, but he knew what Will was doing, touching him in a way that was solid and sure but not overly suspicious, if someone happened to be watching. Jon appreciated the comfort of it, but also had to strongly suppress the urge to drag Will down one of the innumerable alleys they passed, push him up against a wall and have his way with him. Or have Will do the pushing and the having of his way: Jon would take whatever Will wanted to give.

“You’re thinking,” Will said from beside him. “Loudly.”

“Mmm,” Jon said. “And guess what I’m thinking about.” 

Will smirked. “I did ask if you wanted to fuck him.”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Tough luck,” Will said. He leaned close to Jon’s ear, in a way that likely didn’t look innocent at all; Jon was only glad they were walking through a particularly dark passageway. “‘Cause I want to put my tongue up your arse, and I aim to do it.”

Jon could feel the shiver run through his whole body, and knew Will could feel it, too. “All right, then,” he said, somewhat hoarsely.

Will smirked again, pleased with himself. He wouldn’t try anything more, out here in the open as they were, but his words were more than enough to make Jon want to be as stupid as his imagination directed.

To distract himself, and because he wanted to know what Will’s response would be, he instead pointed out, “Anyway, after that show you put on, I think if I tried to fuck Frey Silas would’ve gone for my throat.”

“Nah,” Will said. “He would’ve sat by, and let you, and then he wouldn’t have spoken to you for a while.”

Jon frowned a little at the note in Will’s voice. “You’re pissed at him.”

“No I ain’t,” Will replied. “All I’m saying is, if he don’t want us to do something, he can use the words he’s supposed to be so good with and tell us.”

“Yes, well,” Jon said. “It’s Silas.” Will gave him a look. “I’m saying, ask him what he thinks and he’ll go on till your brain numbs. Ask him what he feels, and he’ll clam up so fast you’ll be lucky not to lose a finger or two.”

Will let out a crack of laughter. “Seems to have worked out for him, at any rate.”

Jon studied him a minute. The back alleys and courtyards they cut through were occasionally lit by moonlight and otherwise dark as cinders, deep black darkness you had to weave through by feeling and memory more than sight. That was how he watched Will, too: his mind tracing the well-known lines of his face, conjuring his expression more by instinct than observation. “You want to tell him no next time?” he asked. “Not till we’ve reworked the rules?”

“Nah,” said Will, though not like he hadn’t thought of it. Jon wondered if a part of it too wasn’t that Will didn’t want to be seen to be retreating, didn’t want it to seem as though he were scared or ashamed or weak in any way. Jon didn’t think it was the time to point it out, but Will and Silas were friends for a reason, more similar than they’d likely acknowledge: both of them faced the world with the same stubborn bravado, an unwillingness to show themselves vulnerable. “I’m only saying.”

“I know.”

They walked the last few twists and turns of alleyway in quiet, until the reached the back side of their lodgings, spiriting themselves inside and to their rooms. There at last Jon relaxed, in a way he hadn’t realized he needed: here, finally, he could lay down on the bed and close his eyes, and feel entirely secure.

After a minute the bed dipped beside him, Will tracing his fingernail down the open V of Jon’s shirt. He was naked again but for the bindings around his chest, and wearing an expression a few degrees softer than his customary smirk, though just as filled with promise. “You should take your clothes off,” he remarked conversationally.

“Should I?” Jon remarked back, but he was already reaching for his shirt. He’d been hard to one degree or another for what felt like hours now, and the expression on Will’s face had his cock aching in moments, stomach fizzing with arousal.

Will helped him shove off breeches and stockings, shoes falling to the floor with soft thuds. He crawled between Jon’s legs, already bent and spread for him, and there was a moment when they only looked at each other, gaze heavy with meaning, with things unsaid only because they were too big to be sayable.

And then it was all sensation, Jon's mind melted down only to want and pleasure. The stretch of his thighs as he held himself open, Will’s hand cupping his balls; Will’s tongue, agile and creative, penetrating him in the most shiveringly intimate way. Then, once Jon had lost all track of time, Will’s long nimble fingers up his arse, precise and demanding where his tongue had been luxurious and slow. Jon spent with a shout, his release almost surprising after having been so aroused for so long.

By the time he swam his way back to full consciousness, Will was lying beside him, making small throaty sounds as he brought himself off. Jon knew he wouldn’t want help, that after this complicated night of revealing his body he would find it too difficult and fraught. Instead, Jon only slung an arm around him, pulled him close and let him cry his release against Jon’s chest.

He felt Will’s breathing slow and even out in time to his own, chests rising and falling against each other. Sleepily, Jon ran his hand up Will’s back, tugging lightly at the bandages around his chest, a question.

Will shook his head, hair tickling the underside of Jon’s chin. “Not tonight,” he said, after a moment.

Jon could’ve argued that: when Will used to regularly wear his bindings through the night he’d sometimes wake up gasping for air, terrifying for both of them. But he understood too his reasons, knew that what he had done tonight, for all that it had been about pleasure and desire, had also been difficult and frightening. Will didn’t even always like Jon to get him off, to put his mouth to him; to have Frey—who despite their now-common evenings together, despite their work with him in David’s absence, despite the trust Silas had in him, was still who he was—do so was something else altogether. 

But Will had made the decision anyway, had decided that it was something he wanted and that that made it worth it. Jon would not, in truth, have expected anything else from him.

So he only tightened his arm around the familiar span of Will’s shoulders, and pulled him close. Will kicked at his ankle, in an affectionate sort of way: an injunction to stop thinking so much, Jon was sure. So he did, and fell asleep to the sound of Will’s breathing, easy and content.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from (William) Shakespeare's Sonnet 25.


End file.
